f 



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WAYSIDE GLEANINGS. 



BY 



]^ri^s. M. A. SUTFIX 



Wrni FLLI STUATIOXS. 



dv^ 





JAClvSOX, ?^rT( 11. 

Published Fok The Aithotj, By 

A. H. BKOAVX. 

1888. 



T5 ^i<^^ 



Copyritrht, 1883, by 

Mrs. M. A. SITTFIN, 



WAYSIDE GLEANINGS, 



TO MY DAUGHTERS 

MATIE A:NrD BELLE. 



PKEFAC^E. 

The gleaner of this little sheafhas often tui'iied back 
while on the way ; bat some unseen and resistless spirit 
has continually urged the faltei'ing footste])s foi'ward. 

The pathway has been varied — sometimes rough and 
rugged, leading through thorny and rocky wilds, ])ut al- 
ways emerging into i)leasant ])laces. ])ast laughing wa- 
ters aiul singing birds. 

Ivnowingthat sometimes oui* heaits are ch)sest linked 
to simplest things, none of the small and unassuming 
'flowers by the way have been passed by unnoticed. 

Yet hoAV nuiny of us pass by, all unheeded, these little 
simple flowers by the wayside, attracted therefrom by 
those of more gorgeous colors, growing far ofl*, upon 
some sunny slope ! And though mountains, and rocks, 
and thorns intervene, the eager feet are in nowise loth 
to press forward to obtain them. 

Yet how often, all along the pathway of life, we meet 
these weai-y gleaners, returning from their vain search, 
foot-sore and heart-broken, contented, at last, in gath- 
ering up the simple blessings which lie within their 
reach ! 

Hoping that neither weeds nor tai*es have been care- 
lessly gathered aud bound withiu this little sheaf, witli 
the useful aud the good, the gleaner sends it out with a 
"God bless you'' ! amongst her friends. 

M. A. S. 
r 



CONTENTS 



PAGE. 

The Legend of Devil's Lake ... .... .... 9 

Story of the Old Oak 14 

Bennie's Birthday .. .... ... .. 21 

The First Mght in the ^S'ew Hoiise 27 

The Last Mght in the Old Honse 31 

Come Away .... 33 

Onr Childhood's Home 37 

Found Dead on Christmas Morning .. ... 41 

The Ghost of Devil's Lake 43 

Found Dead 45 

To Our Forest 47 

Grandmamma's Dead .. . .. ... 49 

A True Incident of the ^NTorthern Fires .... 51 

The Patchwork Quilt 54 

The Pathway of Life 56 

Grand Piver .... .. 58 

Land of My Birth 60 

A Church Scene . .... . . .... 62 

Our Homes Fifty Years Ago .... . . 66 

Order Indispensable in the Sick Room ... ... 68 

The Haunted School House . . 71 

Death of My Father 73 

Twilight Peverie 75 

Uncle Peter 77 

In the Eveningtime there Shall Be Light . . 79 

Don't You Do It 81 

The Unitarian's Inquiry . 83 



^^^9^/ 




TFIE LE(n<:XJ) OF DiOVIL S LAKK. 



There's a lake with a lef>'en(l attached to its name, 

Whose eokl, (hirk waters are of world-wide fame 
And the wood stretehino- hack from its stee]), 
craggy ])ank. 

Where moss covered rocks are slimy and dank. 
Is the constant resort of the nym[)h and the gnome, 

Who make the old, shadowy forest their liome; 
.Vnd the fisherman tangles his liook in the weeds, 

.Vs he panses to hear ''Pan'' pipe cm his reeds. 
() cold, dark lake! how long have thy waves • 

Kelentlessly washed o'er forgotten graves! 
IIow oft, when the gathering storm clond roai's, 

The ''evil one" saunters aronnd on thy shores! 
And at night, when the moon shines ])ale and dim, 
• 'Tis then, with features distorted and a'rim. 



10 WAYSIDE GLEAXIXGS. 

Til his pliantom canoe, from shore to shore, 

He glides with a noiseless and muffled oar. 
Years -l^ack, when the woods were dense and dark, 

Ere the white man's axe had marred the rough hark 
Of a single oak, on thy rough, craggy shore, 

AYhen the paddle was plied instead of the oar, 
A Wyandotte chief woo'd a maid of his band, 

Whose wigwam was near where the hinding now stands. 
They skimmed o'er the hike in birchen canoe, 

And wandered the shadow}^ forest wild through. 
For him, in the chase, she oft carried the game. 

And returning, prepared for his supper the same. 
And the day soon came when they were to wed. 

The tribe be gathered and a feast be s])read. 
And the maiden smiled with sweet, girlish pride. 

As she gaily dressed for the chieftain's bride. 
Her moccasins shone in rich beauty untold, 

Her necklace a treasure more precious than gold; 
But lacking one ornament, loved best of all, 

A string of red berries, o'er her bosom to fall : 
lied berries to twine in her glossy, black hair. 

These gifts of nature she loved best to wear. 
So, bounding forth, like a wild gazelle. 

For no Indian niaiden could more surely tell 
Where the scarlet berries did profnsely al)ound, 

Where the Avliite Avater-lilies could always be found. 
Soon the white berries, commingled Avith green, 

Decked the beautiful form of the young forest Queen ; 
.\nd she started for home, for the feast was s])read. 



WAYSIDE GLEAXIXCS. 11 

And the chief was in waiting his bride to wed. 
As she hnrried back, along the rough shore, 

Her ear canght the plash of a stranger's oar. 
'Twas a swarthy chief of the Mohawk clan, 

More allied, in heart, to demon than man : 
And qnicker than thonght he leaped to her side. 

Took captive the Wyandotte chieftain's bride. 
In vain were her struggles, in vaiiuwere her cries. 

In vain, quite in vain, were her tears and her sighs. 
Tn the meantime, the Wyandotte chieftain hied. 

To bring back his beautiful, missing bride. 
Coming up to the shore, he caught a full view 

Of the stranger and maid in the flying canoe; 
.\nd springing at once to his light, birchen bark, 

(lave chase o'er the waters, tempestuous and dark: 
For a storm had arisen in the darkening west, 

And the wild bird hurried home to her nest. 
And the waves rolled high, 'gainst the steep, rocky shore. 

And the voice of the tempest was loud in its roar; 
But the Wyandotte chief thought not of his life. 

Thought not of the roaring elements' strife, 
He only thought of the maid he loved best. 

And liis heart beat wikl in his savage breast. 
At his back hung lightly his quiver and l^ow. 

With which he had silenced many a foe. 
The stoi'm then burst in its terrible might. 

And the heaving waters were black as night; 
And the frail canoe, of the birchen bark, 

Shivei-ed and rocked in the waters dark. 



11! WAYSrOF. (;LEAXIX(xS. ' 

.\ii(l tlu' Wyandotte cliier, coniiiii^' near his foe, 

Sent a trnsty arrow from his ])en(le(l ])ovr, 
And the wild, dark waves, in that terri1)le storm, 

lleceived that elneftain's lifeless form. 
Then the dnsky maid, with practical hand, 

Ti'ied, vainly, to steer her light hark to land: 
Bnt the winds caught the Wiives, in wild slieets of s])ray. 

And toi"e the light paddle from deft hands away. 
(), nymphs of the wood ! C), nyni])hs of the wave! 

Where now is yonr])ower these l()^'ers to sa\'e? 
Where Avere ye, (), nymphs, to me confide, 

When the waves washed over the chief and his hride? 
Their struggles were vain their lives to save. 

And they sank, O, lake! 'neath thy cold, dai*k wave. 
Soon after, a hunter, in chase of a deer. 

With shy, superstitious dread, drew near. 
And found on the shore, in quiet rest, 

The maiden clas])ed to the lover's breast. 
Xeatli a giant oak, whose limbs droop low, 

Xear the cold Avaves' ceaseless ebb and flow. 
He made their graves there, side l)y side, 

The lowly graces of the chief and his bi-ide. 
Xo stone marks the spot; yet, stranger, to-day 

You may see their graves, should you ])ass that way. 
But the Mohawk chief was never seen more; 

But his ghost oft wanders around on the shore. 
Should you e'er Avish to see that ghostly foi*m, 

Go to the lake, in sunshine or storm. 
Or at night, Avhen the mocm shines ])ale and dim. 



WAYSIDE fiLEAXrX(iS. 



13 



'Tis tlieii, with features distorted and grim, 
111 his ])hantom canoe, from shore to shore, 
ITe o'lides witli a sikmt, mntfled oar. 



r 




STOPvY OF THE OLD OAK. 

In the g-narly forest, way bnek foi- iniles. 
AYhere <>"nonies and fairies ])lay their wiles. 

Where shadows lie tliiekest and deejjest. 
Where white men's haunts have never heeii. 
And the wilds are free fi'oiu ehinior and din. 

And tlie wild birds' sono-s are fai* the sweetest 

There stands the king of tlie foi'est \vi(h'. 
The forest's strength and the forest's jjride. 

With branches ontspreading and reaching. 
He's defiantly stood through storms and wind. 
Oiitiunnbered in years all his kindi'ed and kind. 

And for ages heai'd the owTs wild sri-eeching\ 

And this I'ude legend he Avhispered t<> me. 
Mid mnrmnring leaves of vine and tree. 

And his boughs with dew wei*e Aveeping: 
Yon see that old log there, almost decayed. 
That Avas then living, and I stood in its shade. 

Yon \\\ ai'ound its trunk ci'eeping. 



W A VSIDK (il.KAMXGS. 



15 



OiK' (lav all iiatmv was mei'rv aiul i^'Iad: 
The streamlet laug-hed till I thought it mad, 

l^ookiii^* dowii I could see its eool splashing', 
When I heard low voices hoi*ne on the l)reeze, 
,\ml saw. throiioh tai--reaehiiii>' shadows of trees. 

A yoinii>- chief'taiii with eyes hrii^'htly liashinu-. 

By his side Loline. the Indian maid. 

'rri])ped like a fairy thi'oni>h sunshine and shade, 

While I whispered and lano-hed with my neighbors, 
I heai'd all they said, thoug'h \ ni^ver shall tell; 
'I'heir wigwam stood thei-e in that little dell; 

Ami I watched, each day. all theii' labors. 

I shook down the dew on her floatini>' hail-. 
And whispei'ed : "IVraiden. hewarel hewarel" 

Then an acorn I drojjped on her head. 
Her laug'h low rippliMl tln*ough mountaii] and \ale. 
Tlie pine trees aiiswei'ed hei' laugh with a wail. 

And m\' l)oui>'hs ujurmured low oVt hei* head. 



Each nuM-n. when the sunlight poui-ed tlu-ongh the houodi! 
1 saw the Indian maid and her s|)ouse. 

Seeking- lillies near yomler i-a\ine. 
AN'here they g-i'ew so tender and frail and white. 
And drooped and pined for want of lig-ht. 

Suri-onnded by moss, damp and green. 

But there came a day when she came no moi*e. 

And I })eei'ed througli the ti'ees to hei* wig'wam dooi*. 



16 



WAYSIDE glea:n^ixgs. 




Loliiie soon came to rest on the ground, 
Where I slowly wheeled my shadow around 



To |)('rc('i\(' what the reason c-oiild 1)^. 
/ I'd slit'ltertMl her oft iVojii smi mid rain. 
.Vnd il soul to my lioart a wild thi-oh or])ain, 
AVluMi I niissod lu*r laii,u-li of innocent glee. 

But the ehii'f oft canie, again and again. 
With a dark-eyed maid of another tdan; 

And 1 greatly feared she wonld he his l:)i-ide. 
He h\i(l at lier feet all bright |)lnnnige(l hii'ds. 
And s])oke in her ears sneh sweet. tendcM- woi'ds, 

'\(\ath yon gray oak. witli limhs s|)i'eading wide 

Loline soon e.anie to rest on the gi'onnd. 

A\ liere I slowly wlieeled my shji(h)W ai'onnd: 

Her eyes often red witli nineh weeping. 
She sat in my sha(h>w till t>vi light grav. 
The birds aJl singing a ronndtday; 

And s<|nii'rels from bongh to bongh leaping. 

One wild, dark night, when (donds tilled the skv, 
AVhen lightinn^' tiaslied and winds were hiu'h. 

And the i*ain in a great deluge ]jonring. 
She passed 'neatli my bonghs to yon dark i'a\'ine. 
And tlienee to tlie rocdv overhanging the stivani. 

AVhicdi was dashinLi". and tninblini»\ and i-oarina". 

One moment she stood in wild despair. 

The niglit winds tossing lier long, raven hair. 

Her \()iee to the (treat Spirit erying. 
A sj)ring! a splash! and all ^\^Ms a'rw 



IS AVAYsiDK (;i;f.axix(;s. 

And naiig'lit Avas hcai'd but Xhv tonvnt's rojir 
And tlie wind's (kH'p in()anin,i>- and sjolnng'. 

Hiat ni<j:ht I moaned as I lunci- moaned; 

My great, giant braiu-bes ei'eakcd and groaiuMl, 

My comjjanions around me falling. 
Tbat nigbt I sball nevei'. no never forget: 
Tbat l()\('ly ibrm. I can see it yet. 

As sbe stood, on tbe (»reat Spirit ealling. 

Xext moi'u was ealm, and brigbt, and fail'; 
Fragi'anee of liowers filled all tbe air; 

And tbe streandet sparkling and gusbing. 
Xo leaflet nio\ed, no ]nne tree swayed; 
I>ut wbere, (), wbere Avas tbe Indian maid? 

Ask tbe stream in its bastv rusbiui^-. 



Day followed day, and a wetdc passed by: 
It was early morn, stars filled tbe sky. 

And tbe moonligbt sb(me down on tbe stream. 
Xo bird bad yet ebirjxul from its leafy nest; 
.\11 nature seemed bnsbed in silence and rest; 

Tbe forest ai)i)eared in a peaceful dream. 

In tbe uneei'tain ligbt of tbe forest sbade. 
I saw tbe form of tlie Indian mai(L 

Floating doAvn tbe stream, witb bail' outspreadinij 
liising and falling on eNery AvaA e. 
In wbicb sbe found a willing grave, 

Wben bone, and io\ . and love bad lied. 



WAYS! 1)1-: (;r.KAXiX(;s. 11] 

]My projecting' rcots, washed bare ])\ the stream. 
All tan<>'le(l and wliite in the mooidio'ht ak'am: 

Like l()vin<>' arms, stretelied out to eai'ess lier, 
]\ry rootlets <y;vvw\ and entwined her aronnch 
And reae]nn<>-, tooh I'oot a<>-ain in the oroiiiid; 

Ivesolved nevei' more to I'elease liei* 

It was niore than one hundred years ai>'o. 
Still I ean hear the rij)i)le and tlow 

Of wavelets, dashino- ag-ainst hei* foi'iu ; 
For tui'ued to stone, the maiden lies there. 
With eold, diui eyes, in a ceaseless stai'e, 

Througli hrio'ht sunshine and ])itiless stoi'iu. 

One hinnh'ed times, my l)i*ii>'ht lea\('s Vw shed, 
To forui a gay eoAering for tlie dead : 

A sunny covering of russset leaNcs ; 
]iiit tlie rutliless wind, in riot aud i-out. 
Has whirled and scattered them all about: 

Ruthlessly wasted my beautiful sheaxcs. 

.Vnd now the bright face, with cold, dim eves, 
(>azes forevei* toward the ])ale, blue shies, 

L'ncovered, no cofHn, no shi'oud. uo pall ! 
One small, dainty hand ever rests on the bank, 
A\diere craAvl \ ile i*e])tiles, slimy and dank : 

And the owl o'er the stream screeches loudU' his call 

]\ry shadow, in \ain. V\v tried to keep, 
'lustwhei'e my dai'ling lies asleej); 



20 



WAYSIDE (xLEAXIXGR. 



I slieltered in life, wliy not in (U'atli ? 
My natiii'al course I can't keep back, 
And it moves around on its cii'clin^' ti*ack. 

AVlietlier fanned b}^ teni])est or zeplivi' 



ireath. 



Tliere's a Avild, tiny vine, Avitli l)erries red, 
Forms a reoal crown foi' my darling's bead. 

And tbe reacbing tendrils ber limbs entwine ; 
Making bracelets for ber more pnre tban gold. 
Bracelets for arms of fairest monld, 

AVbei'e matcbless sculpture and grace recline. 

Sboidd you wisb to knoAV Avbei*e tbe maidiMi lies, 
Be guided by tbe birds' sbrill ci'ies. 

Go wbere tbe oaks are bigbest ol'all. 
Go wbere tbe rocks ai'c of grayest line, 
AYbere tbe sky a])OA'e is of brightest bine. 

Where the darkest pines grow stately and tall, 



bexxte's biktiiday. 



Ilaimali, tidy up tlie kitclieu, 

Koll the windoAV shades up higlier. 

That more sunshine may come in, 
And ril l)uild an extra tire. 

Sliau't I go out and kill a turkey? 

There's one quite fat, I heard 3 on say 
I've g-ot a notion Bennie's comin'. 

For, mind you not it's his birthday? 

'Twas kind o' lonely here this mornin', 
Before the sun came (mt so hright; 

But now I almost know he's ccmiin', 
lie was in my dreams all night. 

Don't you mind you of the time, 

Hannah, many years ago. 
When we laid poor little Willie 

In his grave, beneath the snow? 



'22 WAYS TDK (;t.eaxtx(;s. 

Hurry u\) the dinner, Hannah! 

Baste the turkey! cook it l)r()wn! 
Oh, you've got it nice and juicy! 

Likely, Bennie Avill walk from town. 

Bring out that damask table cover, 
The one they used that very morn, 

And Avas thought b}^ all so pretty, 
On the day, our boy was boi-n. 

And mind you, bring them little towels; 

Place one here, just by his ])late; 
^^ow, bring his china cnp and saucer: 

There, mothei", now that looks first-rate. 

Hark! T hear a footstep, Hannah! 

Isn't Bennie coming up the walk, 
'Xeath the elm trees, where last summer. 

You aiu] T would sit and talk? 

Look, dear Hannah, I'm so shaky. 
And my limbs I can't command: 

Oh! it's only Judge Brown coming, 
AVith a lettcM' in his hand. 

Hannah, get your spec's and read it,' 

You know your eyes are better than mine! 

I fear if I should undertake it, 

I shoTddn't make out a sina"le liiu;. 



WAYSTDK fiLEAXrXCiS. 23 

I thought life then, not worth the liviiv. 
And think I slionkl lia' quite giv'n out, 

liacrt not l)een for } on, clear Hannah, 
doing so listlessly about. 

But, when only four years after: 

ffust four years lacking a day; 
Ct(^d, in His mercy, gave us Bennie, 

That old, lone feeling went away. 

There never was a })rou(ler father, 

AVhen I looked upon my boy: 
My heart, that day, was running o'er, 

It was so full of love and joy. 

And don't you mind you of the time, 

AVhen old Judge Brown dropped in to tea? 

HoAY he praised Bennie's noble head: 
Said he resembled you and me? 

His hair like mine, you rememl)er, Hannah, 
And eyes, that seldom filled with tears: 

Like yours, only a little brightei'. 
Owing, may be, to your years. 

Bennie was a noble fellow; 

He set his mark so high, you see. 
That disgrace, through his demeanoi-, 

Xe'er can come to you and me. 



2i WAYSIDE OLEAXTXOS. 

THE LETTEIJ. 

•^Dearest father, dearest mother. 
Oh! tliat I should give you ])aiii! 

But my fnte is sealed forever ; 

You ue'er will see your hoy agaiu. 

Aud uow ni tell you how it ha])])eued: 
Four years ago I left my hoiue. 

So youug, so pure, aud uever feariug 
This fate to me would ever couie. 

But, iu a Aveak aud evil juoiueut, 
The tempter, iu the shape of driidc. 

So mercilessly assailed me, 

I yielded ere I sto])])ed to thiuk. 

Aud late oue uight, Avheu crazed Avith liquor 
I cau't tell hoAV, uor where, uor why, 

I shot a comrade through the heart, 
Aud uoAv they tell uie T must die! '' 

The letter drops froui uerveless fiugei's; 

The wrinkled face is Avhiter uow, 
Than the spotless muslin horder 

Of the ca]) ahove her brow. 

Hauuah, set aAvay that turke}'. 
It's odor makes me sick I fear; 

There, hel]) me to the couch just yondei*. 
My head, T thiuk, is not quite clear. 



WAYSIDE GLEAXIXGS. 25 

For one so old and feeble, 

This shock proved f\ir too great; 
It left him weak and helpless, 

By it's great, o'er-powering weight. 

When next morning's sun was shining, 

As it shone the day before. 
Shimmered through the pplished windows. 

Rested on the snowy floor, 

A tiny, smiling sunbeam. 

Like a shining thread of gold, 
Fell across the marble forehead. 

Of that old man, dead and cold. 

And a patient, white-faced woman 

Knelt by his side in prayer. 
With eyes, so much like Bennie's, 

In a wild and vacant stare. 

And the neighbors Avhispered knowingly. 

In accents low and sad: 
" God of mercy, save her reason! 

Poor Hannah's going mad." 

And in the days that followed, 

Days of the joyous spring; 
She still looked for her Bennie, 

For reason had taken wing. 



26 WAYSIDE GLEA^^IXGS. 

Each morn the floor was sanded, 
As white as white could be; 

And the table with spotless linen 
Arranged again for three. 

Oft to the neighbors passing 
'JN^eath the elms along the way, 

She whispered gently, softly; 

"Say! Bennie's coming home to-day." 

And still she waits and watches, 

While, in a far oft' land, 
Bennie sleeps in a lowly grave, 

Made by a stranger's hand. 




r 



THE FIRST IS^IGHT IX THE XEW HOUSE. 



The new house was finished the night before; 
The muss and hurry were almost o'er. 
I had tacked down the carpets and set up a bed ; 
And then, with weary feet and aching head, 
I hung the pictures, and placed the chairs. 
And tacked the carpet on the stairs. 
In the polished stove a fire burned bright, 
Casting on the opposite Avail its light; 
The table with snowy linen was spread. 
For, be it remembered, my husband had said : 
" Let the first night in the new house, dear wife. 
Be the brightest, the happiest night of your life. 
You've longed so much for a house of your own. 
While slowly, but surely, our fortune has grown; 
And the coveted prize is yours to-night; 
So make it cheerful, and happy, and bright. 
You've been a good wife and deserve it all : 



28 WAYSIDE GLEAXTXGS. 

Your christian life has built up a wall 

Between me and crime, and vice, and shame, 

And I can thank you to-day for my fortune and name. 

You've prayed for success, and success is ours ; 

Your prayers have strewn our pathway with flowers. 

More faith by your prayers, my heart has reached. 

Than by all the sermons I've ever heard preached." 

I had prayed for help, and my prayers had been heard, 

And the blessings I asked were not long deferred; 

And I stood and surveyed my room that night. 

The pictures hung true, the carpet looked bright. 

I had taken all in from ceiling to floor. 

When I heard a low, timid knock on the door. 

I opened the door, and to my surprise. 

Bless me! could I believe my eyes? 

A beggar stood there, but thinly clad: 

A woman at that, looking sorry and sad. 

She would like to stay all night, she said. 

And advanced a step with feeble tread. 

What could I do? 'twas only last night 

M}^ husband had said, ''make it cheerful and bright." 

And I am so tired! how take her in? 

She may be a woman inured to sin; 

And I said in haste, while my heart stood still, 

'^^ot to-night, good woman, but just over the hill, 

You can lodge, I know, for they 're a ery kind : 

There, good, kind people, I'm sure you'll find." 

With a slow weary step she turned away; 

The last dim rays of the dying day 



WAYSIDE r^LEAXIXGrS. 29 

Fell across her path; and I closed the door 

And said: ''I will think of that woman no more." 

But til oughts would come of the sad face still, 

And I cast an anxious look o'er the hill. 

I thought of all that my husband had said, 

Of my christian life, and longed for his tread. 

The carpet had lost its bright, cheerful hue; 

And I almost forgot that the house was new. 

And, when my husband came in tO tea. 

That something Avas amiss he could plainly see. 

He remarked with a disappointed air, 

That "women were strange as they were fair: 

They will wish for a thing from si)ring until fall. 

And, when they possess it, don't want it at all." 

The supper was almost untasted that night, 

Though I had prepared it with the utmost delight; 

And, to make my discomforture more complete, 

A cold storm set in, of rain and sleet. 

Fancy oft in the wind, heard a woman's call, 

Saw a pale wan face and an old gray shawl; 

And, when rising from my knees before going to bed, 

"O Jesus! " were all the words I had said. 

The morning found me moi-e wretched still. 

And I cast a troubled look over the hill; 

I looked not long, for in haste came a lad. 

Looking pale from fright, his countenance sad : 

''Just over the hill," he hurriedly said, 

" A Avoman lies there; I guess she is dead." 

The moment he spoke I knew it all, 



30 WAYSIDE GLEAXi:N^aR. 

And waiting for naught, but a soft woollen shawl, 

I sprang through the gate, left the boy far behind. 

And sped like a gale impelled by the wind. 

She lay all crumpled up in a heap. 

Her garments coyered with rain and sleet. 

AYhile feeling for her heart I heard a faint sigh, 

" O, God let her liye! '' was my heart's wild cry. 

And when she was laid on my snoAyy bed, 

And my soft, downy pillows supported her head, 

I bethought me then of a paper I found, 

In the cold, stilf hand, while there on the ground. 

And this I read over and oyer again; 

For it g-ave to my heart both comfort and pain. 

'TAvas this: '^through all want and poverty, be sure 

That, though often tempted, I've kept myself piu*e." 

She lived, and that night I found yoice for prayer; 

She lived by my nursing and tender care. 

She proved herself worthy of the aid I had given, 

And pointed the way more clearly to heaven. 

And now, so completely in our love she has grown 

That in our bright, new house she oft finds a home. 

This teaches a lesson we all should know: 

Never gain selfish pleasure by another's w^oe. 



THE LAST NTGTIT TX THE OLD TTOrSE, 



To-moiTOW we leave the clear old house, 

IM thought to leave with delight; 
But somehow I'm sad, and caunot feel glad: 

It depresses my spirits to-night. 

The dear, old home, has sheltered us long, 

Each worm-eaten log seems dear; 
And, somehow to-night, I can't hail with delight 

Our projected departure from here. 

The old fire-place, with its great, broad mouth, 
Oh, how we'll miss its bright cheer! 

The light will f\dl on the Avhite- washed wall, 
To-night for the iirst time here. 

In the corner there, where the floor is smooth. 

Was grandmar's shetered nook; 
Where the fire would throAV its ruddiest glow 

While she read the Holy Book. 



32 WAYSIDE GLEAXIXaS. 

Three times a "shadow" has darkened 

This threshokl^ rough and old; 
Each time taking, while our hearts were breaking, 

A lamb from our rustic fold. 

And here is the home where they Avere born ; 

And here, where they used to play : 
AYhere on my knee, in childish glee, 

They frolicked many a day. 

'Twas here, dear wife, 'twas here we knelt, 

AVhen our trials first begun, 
xVnd tried to pray for strength to say : 

"Thy will, not mine, be done." 

'Tis hard to leave the dear, old home; 

For in every place and nook. 
My fancy, you see, brings back to me^ 

Some cherished word or look. 

And e'en the crickets on the hearth. 

Have e'er, a tale for me ; 
Of a sunny face, a form of grace. 

Or a laugh of childish glee. 

And this is Avhy I love it so well, 

And why I'm so loth to depart : 
Why that dwelling there, so grand and ftiir. 

Finds, never, a place in my heart. 



COME AWAY. 



'Twas early morn, and T had heard 

The muffled voice of chanticleer. 
A robin in his leafy nest, 

AVhose '^chirrup! chirrup!" sounded near, 
As if, unquiet in his sleep. 

Half dozing, seemed to try to sing; 
But, dropping off again to sleep. 

He tucked his head beneath his wing. 

The hour before the morning dawns. 

Is darkest of the twenty-four; 
It makes the solemn daAvn more sweet. 

To think the long, dark night is o'er. 
I watched the dark sky turn to gray, 

And kncAV 'twas then no longer night; 
I saw the gray slow melt away, 

Then merge into a streak of light. 



34 WAYSIDE GLEAXTXGS. 

There was a brooding stillness there. 

The earth and air in sleepiest mood ; 
A stillness, fraught almost with pain. 

Seemed in the very air to brood. 
I wandered forth into the fields. 

And onward, thenee, to dewy lane; 
O'ei'-hanging branches brushed my hair 

And sprinkled sparkling dro])s like rain. 

T wandered cm, and on, and on. 

Through drooping fern and tangded grass. 
And past a lake with sandy shore, 

And surface clear and smooth as glass. 
The wild birds flew up in fright. 

Alarmed at my untimely call. 
Alighting on the gray, old rocks. 

That by the lake-side reared a walk 

I know not where my footsteps led. 

My reyerie >yas so profound. 
And knew not of my whereabouts, 

Until I heard a rustling sound; 
Then, starting up as if in fright, 

I saw the long*, dark branches wave; 
Then, looking 'neath my \evj feet. 

Espied a little moss-groAvn grave. 

'Twas then I comprehended all. 

And saw just Ayhere my ste])s had led : 



WAYSTDE CiLEAXrXGS. OU 

I was standing there in silent awe, 

Amid tlie dwellings of the dead. 
And towering monnments Avere there, 

With moss in festoons gathered o'er; 
Some were so old, and long had stood, 

They were monnds of moss and nothing more. 

Bnt, as I said, I heard a sound, 

And looking where the trees were dense, 
I saw the branches slowly part 

And a ghostly form emerge from thence: 
A form with robes of spotless white. 

In the nncertain light of the forest gray, 
Approached me with a noiseless tread. 

And softly whivspered: ^' Come away!" 

A thin trans])arent arm she raised. 

And beckoned with her snowy hand; 
And seemed to wish that I shonld go 

With her, into the spirit land. 
T stood spell-bonnd; I conld not move; 

For lack of strength I needs mnst stay; 
While nearer, nearer, she advanced. 

And softy whis])ered: ''Come away!" 

A cold, white hand, was laid on mine. 
When, snddenly, I woke from slec]): 

It was a dream; IVl nanght to do, 
Bnt softly from my couch to ci-ee]). 



3() WAYSIDE OLEAXTXGR. 

The sun was shining throug-h the l)linds. 
Streaking the Avail with bars of gold; 

And I was shivering with affright. 
All from this Hiostly dream I've toUL 



But often in the honrs of night, 

And often in the twilight gray, 
1, in my fancy, hear that voice. 

Which always whispers: ''Come away!" 
And, may we, in that solemn time, 

When death shall come in full array. 
Bear in our arms ripe sheaves of grain. 

When God shall summon: "Come awayl' 





orr. cnTLDHooDs tiome. 



The lioiise was little, and dark and ])0()r; 
A¥e tell its woi-th to say, " 'twas home." 
Dearer it was than stately dome; 

And children in it half a score. 



Dearer than ang'ht on earth to me 
It was, except a mother's love; 
We loved the dell and woods to rove, 

In childish fancy, wild and free. 

Here first I saw my mother's face, 

First heard her voice in accents mild; 
And, even when a tiny child 

I noted well her trnth and grace. 



o8 WAYSIDE GLEAXTXGS'. 

The rose was then upon her cheek; 

Bnt years passed on, I saw it fade; 

Her hair put on a lig-hter shade, 
With noAv and then a silvery streak. 

O, l)lessed home! thy every nook 
Reminds me of her h)ving' cares, 
Or of my fi^ther^s suppliant i)rayers. 

Or of some cherished word or look. 

Loved voices here have silent gTOAvn, 

The " shadow '' crossed the threshold g'ray. 
And hore the dear, loved forms away: 

Cxod claimed them for his own. 

We saw them sIoavIv home away, 

Down this same path, and throug^h this gate. 
Will they at g*olden portals Avait, 

To welcome us some future day? 

And now, each shrub, each i'ugg*ed rock. 
Reminders of my childhood's days, 
Speaks of ni}" sister's gleesome ways^ 

And the dear brother of the flock. 

I love to wander o'er the 'place. 
When fancy places them all there; 
The tangled curls, the silvery hair,, 

And every dear, familiar fjice. 



WAYSIDE r^LEANrXGS. 39 

The pond, to us a boundless sea, 

Just in the margin of the woods, 

Where blackbirds came to hatch their broods, 
Was source of constant joy to me. 

The soil around these buildings old. 
Is hallowed ground: ah, lightly tread! 
The feet that pressed this, soil are dead; 

The hand that pruned these trees are cold. 

The simplest things, all bear a spell : 
E'en the wild roses, on the hill. 
My heart with strange emotions thrill; 

They silently a story tell : 

A sweet, sad story of the ]3ast. 

It has been said that some heart-strings 
Are closest linked to simplest things. 

And firndy hold while life shall last: 

I hold this true. There was a tree, 
That grew beside my father's door. 
Planted by him in days of yore, 

And loved and cherished long by me. 

And, when its limbs began to die. 

Each one all leafless at the end, 

I felt that I had lost a friend: 
That I had loosed some earthly tie. 



40 WAYSFDE aLEAXIXOS. 

Long years have passed since childhoocrs days^ 
Yet soul and brain will wander back, 
Along that careless, childish track, 

And catch again the sunny rays. \ 

O, blessed home! thou art thrice blessed! 

Our feet, but ne'er our hearts, may roam; 

Yet may we reach a better home, 
And dwell in heavenly rest. 




FOUND DEAD ON CHKISTMAR MOKXTXG. 



The winter rain, with a sound of pain, 

Is beating down on the city ; 
And the voice of the bhxst, as it hurries past, 

Sends forth a wail of pity ; 
For, on the river's bank, all dripping and dank 

A lifeless form is lying; 
Xor does she hear the christmas cheer, 

Xor Christmas wind's loud sighing. 

AVeary of life and ceaseless strife, 

Weary of vice and shame, 
She sought to hide in the ri^ er's tide, 

A lost and ruined name. 
Once a mother's hand, in a shining band, 

Arranged that dripinng hair; 
And those fingers cold, were taught to fold. 

And clasp in chiklish prayer. 



42 WAYSIDE GLKAXTXCxS. 

Safe from the storm is that' mother's form; 

And years have since passed by, 
The tempter came, then followed shame, 

Xo mother's counsel nigh. 
The christian throng as they passed along, 

Held back their robes in scorn; 
Xo helping hand in all the land. 

To save her life's SAveet morn. 

To-day, a sigh each passer by 

Heaves from a pitying breast; 
Xo frowns have they for that one to-day, 

Xow that she has gone to rest. 
Had she known that one, 'neath the bright sun, 

Had cared for her, e'en a pin; 
It had saved her name from untimely shame, 

And turned her steps from sin. 

'Tis strange that we, in life's dark sea. 

Our help and love withold, 
^or pity show, nor care bestow. 

Till the heart is still and cold; 
Though, through long years of sighs and tears. 

Poor, hungry hearts oft pine. 
For what to-day, unconscious chiy 

Receives, but gives no sign. 



THE GHOST OF. DEVII/S LAKE. 



Have you ever wandered idly, 

On that weird, woody shore? 
Have you hearkened to the breezes, 

Or the tempest's fitful roar? 
Or within the zephyr's wing? 

Heard the flap of fairy's rustle, 
Or in fancy, heard such music. 

As the gods alone can sing? 

Have you seen tRe cream-white lilies, 

Golden centres all aglow. 
Tremble, as if some water nymph 
Toyed with their stems below? 
There gray, old oaks with gnarly arms 

Rear their dark, green toi)s on high; 
Whose branches form strange, fairy shapes. 

Against the azure sky. 



44 WAYSIDE GLEAA^TNCiS. 

And there the superstitious 

Hear, with silent dread, 
The whispering's of the night winds. 

In the branches overhead. 
Where the white and shimmering moonbeams 

Through the leaflets, dot and flake, 
AYitli moving light and shadow, 

The soft waters of the lake. 

Have you heard the moonlit waves, 

\Yith a strange sound lap the shore. 
Keeping time Avith constant dip, 

And soft plashing of the oar? 
Have you seen, Irom out that forest. 

Merge a figure dark and grim, 
Wander slowly through the rushes. 

Silently the waters skim? 

Should you wish to see the phantom. 

See the noiseless light canoe. 
Gliding oft within the shadow. 

Of the branches dripping dew; 
Go there when the silent moonbeams 

Softly lie on shrub and brake, 
There you'll see the silent spectre. 

See the ghost of Devil's Lake. 



( 

POUND DEAD. 



[Ill New York, not long- siiice, a bride of six months, learning that her 
hu^and was a hopeh»ss drunkard, committed suicide by taking- poison.] 

Her toilet made with anxious care, 

Orange flowers twined in her hair, 

Tier l)ridal robes of spotless white 

Adorn her matchless foi*m to-night; 

Her white hands clasped across her breast. 

Lying in death's long, silent rest, 

Her face reveals a troubled look, 

As from some woe she conld not brook. 

Six mo]iths ago a hap])y bride, 

Her joy, her life, her all Avas he; 

All that a manly heart conld be. 

Only one fa tilt, only jnst one. 

And that was scarcely yet begnn, 

'Twas now and then a glass of beer: 

Why should that bride have anght to fear? 

It grew npon him, day by day, 



46 WAYSIDE r^LEAXINGS. 

I'ntil his life was wrecked for aye. 
And Avhen she comprehended this, 
Saw dashed to earth her life-long bliss^ 
What conld she do, she asked, oh, what 
Better than die and be forgot? 
She thought of all that she might do ; 
Might strng'gle on and live it through. 
Her pride she thought to lay aside, 
And &till live on, the drunkard's bride; 
But, oh! this thought she could not stand; 
Far better die, by her own hand. 
So she twines again the blossoms fair. 
And decks her brow,. with anxious care; 
And dons the bridal robes of white; 
And wears the wedding ring to-night; 
!N^ow folds her white hands o'er her breast,, 
And seeks that long, untroubled rest. 
Carefully lift the lifeless clay, 
And lay the lovely form away. 
Should Ave pity, or should we blame, 
For choosing death instead of shame? 



wmm 



/ 




fe.:^'.^ 4:^!^J. "i'^- -rJ,.^-,"-., 



TO OUR FOREST. 



O, grand, majestic forest wild, 
We worship God in loving thee; 

We love thy flowery-mantled hills. 
Thy every shrub, thy every tree. 



48 WAYSfDE (nJLEAXIXGS. 

We love thy dark, cool, shady nooks, 
Wliere matted moss is ever bright. 

The lily shoots on fragile stalk. 
And pines foi* want of light. 

Ye towering Pines, with lofty tops, 
To reach the clonds, yon seem to try; 

Yonr moaning branches chanting ever 
Solemn ])raise to the Most Hig'h. 

Ye grand, old Oaks, Avith gnarly arms. 

Storms have swept o'er yonr heads in vain 

Like man, yon bow before the l^last, 
Bnt rise to face the storm again. 

Ye Elms, with monrnfnl reaching' arms. 
Helplessly Avaving in the blast; 

Why that imploring^ attitnde. 

Even when Avind and storm are ])astV 

Why snpplicating evermore, 

With arms so frail, of Avondrons length? 
Art teaching ns to pray to God : 

To pray for faith, and helj) and strength? 




gkaxdmamma's dead. 



Fold the hands gently, 

Cross them with care; 
Place the cap lightly 

O'er the white hair. 
Life's work is finished, 

The hands may now rest 
Then peacefnlly fold them 

Across the still breast. 



Who'll tell of heaven, 

And point ont the way? 
Who'll teach us our duty 

From day unto day? 
The children will miss 

Her solicitious care, 
And the sweet, patient face. 

So suggestive of prayer. 



50 WAYSIDE GLEANIT^GS. 

Cares all forgotten, 

Trials all o'er, 
Troubles and sorrows 

She'll meet with no more. 
Such sweet, peaceful looks 

The features o'erspread; 
And a smile lingers still, 

Though grandmamma's dead. 




A TRUE IT^CTDE:N^T OF THE TsTOl^THERX FIRES. 



The homes of the north in a shadow were lying; 

The gathering darkness had settled around; 
The Avind, in its moaning and pitiful sighing, 

Sent forth on the air an ominous sound. 

The woods, that for days had looked weird and ghostly, 
As though some vile demon lay hid in their depths. 

Were filled with the murmur of voices unearthly; 
And echoed the sound of death's coming steps. 

The lamps in the houses at noonday were lighted; 

For smoke in its blackness obscured every ray; 
And wives, with pale faces and senses benighted. 

Had asked o'er and o'er: " Shall we go or stay?" 

But the husbands had answered: " Our homes, precious 
treasures, 

For them we have labored and toiled on for years; 
To go would but rob us of all coming pleasures. 

So we'll work for our homes, and awav with all fenr«." 



52 WAYSIDE GLEANTXGS. 

But ere the last words of this sentence were spoken, 
The neig"hbors, g-athered in trembling and fear. 

Heard the roaring of flames, and the sonnds that betoken 
The demon of fire, with a tempest in rear. 

Far np above tree-tops the wild flames are leaping; 

They call for the horses, they'll fly to the lake. 
Six miles in the distance sweet Hnron lies sleeping, 

And a thonsand lives, to-day are at stake. 

Many swift trembling hands hitch team in a hnrry, 
To wagon aflected by drouth and the sun; 

And, parents and children, and all in a flurry, 
Are seated and started, and the race is begun. 

The breath of the demon SAvept on in its mig*ht, 

And scorched and fanned each white throbbing brow. 

The team speeding on, impelled by wild fright; 
A tire has run oft'! O, God! save them now! 

A halt of one moment was torture and death. 
And prayer from all hearts ascended on high; 

Pale hands clasped convulsive, a prayer in each breath, 
For what can now save them! Can God's help be nigh? 

Mothers looked upward with wild, pleading eyes; 

Men gazed on that wheel with lips that were dumb. 
With hearts asking mercy of the All-Wise, 

And every nerve strained for the crash that might come. 



WATSIDE GLEAXIXGS. 53 

But the ways of the Father are past finding out, 
In mercy his loving hand guided that wheel; 

]^ot even a spoke was unloosed on the route; 
Stood firmly, as if it were bound there by steel. 

And soon, through branches, the glimmer of waves 
Announced that the peaceful Lake Huron was there; 

Then they knelt on the shore where bright waters lave. 
And thanked the All-Father for mercy and care. 

But hundreds behind them lay blackened and dead. 

And hundreds were homeless and stricken that day; 
Pale fathers, whose children asked vainly for bread. 

Gazed back upon homes that in dead ashes lay. 

Then God caught the smoke in a black rolling cloud, 
And sent it far southward in the hollow of his hand; 

Wrapped city and town in its folds like a shroud. 
To herald the tidings of death in the land. 




THE PATCHWORK QUILT. 



There's mag-ic in a patchwork quilt, 
A story lies in every square; 
And, in the stitches set with care 

Behold a castle! fancy built. 

'Tis a memoir of departed life, 
A memoir of departed friends, 
Where past with present softly blends, 

With foint cloud-rifts and shadows rife. 

This simple square of sombre gray 
Has powei- to melt my heart to tears. 
Bringing the sunshine of former years, 

Ere one I loved had passed awa} . 

I've often seen my mother wear 
A dress like this, in foimer days; 
And fancy sees her gentle ways, 

Her mild reproof, her watchful care. 



WAYSIDE GLEANINGS. 55 

And here's a little square of white, 
Of softest white, no color here, 
And, though it brings the scalding tear, 

'Tis always welcome to my sight. 

For, once upon a summer day, 
In this a little form was dressed. 
Which to my heart I madly pressed. 

Though but a form of waxen clay. 

And when I look upon this square. 
It fills my heart with sweet surprise; 
A picture comes before my eyes. 

Of rosy cheeks and silken hair. 

And Grandma pieced this corner square, 
And traced this shell work here so true; 
And blessing God the whole way through : 

Poor Grandma, with the silvery hair! 

Ah! take all else, the bronze, the gilt, 
The antique vases, quaint and rare. 
The rich, old, family china-ware, 

But leave to me the patchwork quilt. 




PATHWAY OF LTFF 



On new-year's morn we turn and gaze 
Adown the jagged path of life; 
We see its by-gone cares and strife 

Along this path of earlier days. 

Backward, on memory's ready wing, 
We hasten, where the ])ath is bright, 
Where childhood walks in snnny lights 

Ere care and sin their bnrdens brinof. 



There stood hope Avith a smiling crown, 
Smiling as hope alone can smile; 
Smiling and cheering us on the while, 

In the face of misfortune's frown. 



WAYSIDE GLEAIS^INGS. 57 

And looking back, along the way, 

This path is crooked and dark as night; 
Then here its in a halo of light, 

And there some steps have gone astray. 

And farther on, we see quite plain. 

This path, a straight and narrow mark; 
Then, as if wandering in the dark, 

A few more steps have strayed again. 

Oft we resolve to mend our ways. 

Resolve and re-resolve in vain; 

Though every misstep gives us pain, 
We live on as in former days. 

Oh, may our path' henceforth be straight! 

Our footsteps never turn astray, 

^or doubt and falter on the way. 
Along the path to heaven's gate? 




GRAND KIVEE. 



A little spring with gurgling sound 
Leaps forth in the gladdened meadow, 

Rushing and sparkling on its course 
Through sunshine and through shadow 

And farther on, in the darkening shade 
Of the feather}^ larch tree's gloamings 

Half hidden fi*om men, it glides along, 
In its crooked pathway roaming. 

How many scenes it has mirrored forth 

Of love, of joy, of sadness! 
How many conflicts, fierce and wild I 

How many smiles of gladness! 

The wild deer here has slaked his thirst, 
His shadow at sunset throwing*, 

All lean and lank to the other bank, 
Where tangled \'ines are growing. 



WAYSIDE aLEAXIXGS. 59 

And here the Indian brave has wooed 

And won the forest maiden, 
And here the old canoe was moored 

With wild game amply laden. 

O River, smiling on thy course 

Of mercy through the land, 
How many hearts to-day exclaim: 

" Thou art supremely grand! " 




LAND OF MY RTRTPI. 



Land of my birth, O, glorious land! 
Where nature spreads with lavish hand 

Her blessings o'er, 
Where fruit, and corn, and meadows green, 
Luxuriant on each hand are seen 

From shore to shore. 

Enthroned, thou art queen of the lakes, 
And sweetest notes thy forest wakes 

By feathered throng; 
And oft our love and praises blend. 
For flowery slope and tangled glen, 

In joyous song. 

And wonders here and there abound, 
Which in no other land are found, 

So grand and rare. 
Thy pictured rocks sublimely stand. 
And grand, old lakes on every hand. 

And beauty everywhere. 



WAYSIDE (ILEAXIXGS. 61 

There's beauty in thy oaks and pines, 
Thy reaching elms and tangled vines 

Of greenest hue, 
And in thy rivers, broad and grand. 
Meandering through the fertile land, 

'^eath skies of blue. 




A CHURCH SCENE. 



Our creed was orthodox; 

Our steeple, tall and grand. 
Directed you to heaven; 

Like an uplifted hand. 

It towered above buildings, 

In beantiful array, 
And spoke to yon of heaven 

In a very pointed w^ay. 

There the rich Mrs. B. 

A princely pew possessed; 
And there she first made known, 

The Lord her soul had blessed. 

One certain Sunday morning, 
She chanced to be quite late; 

For thus it often happens, 

With the lowly and the great. 



WAYSIDE GLEAI^INGS. 

The good, old, faithful sexton 
Heard the sound of coming feet, 

And every pew was occupied, 
Except that lady's seat. 

As the slow and timid footsteps 

Came softly up the aisle, 
Behold, a woman meanly clad. 

In poor and ancient style. 

For she had been a widow. 

Some five long years or more; 

And often struggled hard, to keep 
The "wolf" outside the door. 

But still devout and earnest, 

And a lover of the Lord, 
She timidly had ventured forth, 

To hear his blessed word. 

As she came softly up the aisle. 
Her faint heart beat so loud. 

It seemed it must be audible 
To all that silent crowd. 

A pleasing air of culture 

Clung round her brow, though sad. 
And a look of pure refinement. 

Although so poorly clad. 



63 



64 WfVYSIDE GLEANINGS. 

The sexton hesitated, 

And thought: ''It is qnite clear. 

That it is now so very late, 
Mrs. B. will not be here." 

So he seated that lone woman 
Within that princely pew, 

Supposing the arrivals 

Were very nearly through. 

But, when behind the altar, 
There knelt in silent prayer 

The pastor of that thriving flock, 
Asking for God's best care; 

There was a rustle of silks and satins, 
In an atmosphere of style, 

And the haughty owner of that pew 
Came sweeping up the aisle. 

She halted but one moment, 
Beside that princely pew, 

Her dainty, gloved hand on the back. 
Deciding what to do. 

Then, a look of bitter, withering scorn 
She cast upon her there; 

Crowding into another pew 
With that same haughty air. 



WAYSIDE GLEAT^IXGS. * 65 

Then that sad, white face grew whiter, 
And the beating heart greiv still, 

And a silent prayer ascended 
For strength to bide His will. 

'' The poor ye shall have with you," 

The Savior warned of old ; 
'No respecter is He of persons, 

Cares not for all your gold. 

Inasmuch as ye have done it. 

If to the least it be. 
We know it has been spoken, 

"Ye have done it unto me." 





OUK HOMES FIFTY YEAKS AGO. 



A log cabin in the forest, 
Wild ferns around the door; 

Our fire-place, stone and mortar^ 
With rude, unpolished floor. 

The bare and uncouth rafters 
Were rough and dark oe'rhead; 

But the firelight of an evening, 
Its beguiling radiance shed. 

Far more beguiling radiance 

From that rock and mortar cove^ 

Than could ever be imparted 
By a dull and cheerless stove. 

And the ax, all day resounded. 
For the arm was strong and free; 

And not one was heai-d to utter: 
^'O,. w^oodman, spare that tree I '^ 



WAYSIDK GLEANIXGS. 67 

;N'o grand and lofty steeples 

Were pointing skyward then; 
Bnt plain and simple strnctnres, 

Where stanch and honest men 



Might worship in the forest, 
Where simple, loving words 

Were uttered on each sabbath; 

And they praised God, with the birds. 

Oh, for one glorious morniftg, 

Of thai? fifty years ago ! 
Oh, for one blessed vision, 

Of that forest all aglow ! 

With flowers of every species, 

Of every shade and hue; 
Bright pinks, and in onr parlance, 

" The old maid's bonnets blue." 

Oh, for one childish ramble. 
O'er slope and tangled glen, 

The hills all flowery-mantled, 
The same as they were then! 

But where the wild flowers blossomed. 

The evergreens now grow ; 
To shade the graves of loved ones 

Of fifty years ago. 



ORDER IXDTSPEXSIBLE IX THE SICK ROOM. 



If yoii are weak and prostrate witl> sickness, yonr 
eyes will become familiar Avith every object in your 
room, and trace out every little defect. 

Yon will lie hours and watch a tiny cobweb, way up 
in the farthest corner of your room; and, though you 
resolve again and again that you won't look at it, yonr 
eyes will turn that way in spite of you. 

It is very annoying, and you think: "Oh, if I only 
had strength to lift a broom, how soon wonld I annihi- 
late it!" 

Your onl}^ alternative is to draw the covering over 
yonr eyes, and determine to look at it no more; but your 
will is as weak as yonr body, and it is not more than a 
minute before yonr eyes are again rivited upon it. 

Yon can stand it no longer; and you vociferate at 
the top of your weak voice (which, after all, is not much 
above a w^hisper) for the maid to come with the broom. 
She makes light of it, for she is healthy and strong, and 



WAYSIDE CiLEANIXCiS. ()9 

knows nothing of weak nerves. With one tremendous 
swoop of the broom she moves it about three feet to 
the left, and leaves it clinging to the wall, and walks out 
as if everything had been accomplished. 

You are discouraged. Will that dreadful cobweb 
never be disposed of? You lie and wonder what you 
can do to get rid of it. You see the little black spider 
rolled *up in a ball so snugly in the corner that all fail to 
see it but you. 

Presently you hear a footstep. What joy it sends to 
your heart! The owner of that step has helped you out 
of more than one trouble. 'Tis your husband. Y'^ou tell 
him with a martyred and imploring look of all your 
troubles, and request him to brush down that obnoxious 
web. 

He takes the broom, sweeps away vigorously about a 
minute, but the first sweep he makes takes that web 
about six feet to the right, where it clings securely, with 
its proportions lengthened amazingly; but he fails to see 
it; and, with a, "there! how strange it is that a girl can 
never do a thing as she ought, " he walks out with the 
broom. 

" Where ignorance is bliss, it is folly to be wise,'' and 
you feel that you are not equal to the task of undeceiv- 
ing him, knowing that it would ruffle up all of his self 
complacency, so you draw the covering over your eyes 
and try to sleep; but that is impossible. 

While yet undecisive as to what is to be done, you 
hear another step at the door, this time light and noise- 



70 WAYSIDE r^LEANIN^GS. 

less. It is a lady friend of yours; and she is one of those 
womanly creatures so indispensible in a sick room. 
AYhatever her finger tips come in contact with, puts on 
an agreeable and pleasing aspect. 

You repeat your troubles to her. In one moment 
from that time your room is in order. To carefully wipe 
the web from the wall; to loop the ribbon around the 
curtain, which has been detached from its fastening since 
the first day of your illness; to lower the shade a trifle^ 
to adjust the table spread, which has been shoved away 
by some careless person — these are but the wo]*k of a 
moment. 

You take a restful breath, turn over, close your eyes 
and sleep sweetly. 




THE hau:n^ted school house. 



I tell yoii, I believe in ghosts, and spirit-rappings, 
and all of that sort: and, more than that, I believe that 
we often have presentiments of our friends' final depart- 
ure from this life, because I have heard a great many old 
ladies say that they have actually known such things to 
happen. 

There was old Mrs. What's-her-name : didn't she hear 
three loud raps on the window, just two days before her 
Jonathan died? 

Didn't old Mrs. So-and-so see a light rise right out 
of the ground, just three weeks before her husband died? 
]N^ow, isn't that proof enough to convince any sensible 
mortal ? 

But I was about to tell you of my own experience. 
I once knew a school-house that was really haunted. I 
know it to be so, for what we see with our own eyes, we 
know. I had been told that this was so, and I went 
there to be convinced. 



72 WAYSIDE (xLEANIXaS. 

School was in session, and I went in and took a seat, 
keeping very quiet the while, and on the lookont for 
ghosts, or something snpernatnral. 

I hadn't been sitting there very h)ng, when tliere 
came smack against my nose, a paper wad. To be sure, 
the paper had nothing very ghostly about it, and it re- 
minded me of one I had seen the boy in the corner tear 
out of his writing book about ten minutes before. 

jS^ow, some have been incredulous enough to tell me 
it must have been some of those boys. I know better'n 
that! Didn't I look up the instant that wad struck my 
nose? Were not all the boys in that school-room so in- 
tent on their books that they wouldn't have known it if 
a cannon had exploded in their midst? Don't tell me 
such innocent looking boys would do such a thing; 
though I did see a merry twinkle in the e3^es of that boy 
sitting in the corner; but that was nothing. I have an 
idea he came across something funny in his lessons. 

I tell you it was a presentiment! 

I went home with the firm con\iction that some of 
my family were going to die. 

I looked for that event, and looked for it nearly two 
years, and had almost made up my mind that I was mis- 
taken, when, sure enough, my great-grandfather did die. 

Now, I firmly believe that I really had a warnings or 
else, why on earth did my great-grandfather die? 



r 



DEATH OF MY FATHER, 



It was Sunday morning. The long wished for rain 
had come at last. I knew it from the continual drip, 
drip, from an apple-tree that stood just without my 
window. 

It was not yet dawn; but the rest of the family were 
astir; lights were passing from room to room; footsteps 
were quick, but silent. And I quickly comprehended 
that my father was worse, perhaps dying. I knew it 
by the stillness which reigned throughout the house. 
I knew it by my mother's white face and the heart- 
broken look in her eyes. I imagined I knew it by the 
continual knock, knock, of the curtain against the sash, 
although not a breath of air seemed stirring. And even 
the soft patter of the rain breathed of the '' shadow " 
which was crossing our threshold. Yet it seemed fitting 
that such as he should die on the holy, quiet Sabbath 
day; for his life had been like one continual Sabbath, so 
faithful had he been in his devotion to his Maker. 



74 WAYSIDE GLEAXTN^GS. 

Dressing hastily, I hurried to his room, to find my 
worst fears realized. 

My father was indeed dying. 

Oh, the agony of that moment! to know that the pro- 
tector of my childhood, the kind adviser and benefactor 
of later years, was passing from my sight forever! And 
I wondered what would be the vision which would meet 
his sight when the spirit should first leave its earthly 
tenement and enter the great hereafter. Was it a radi- 
ant, dazzling scene? Was it God's face with an aj)- 
proving smile? Was it the arms of the Heavenly 
Father extended to welcome the pilgrim home? 

The hours wore slowly on. Life waned to its close. 
And when the breezes whispered in the twilight's 
gathering gloom, and wafted the perfume of the damp 
meadow, where he so oft had toiled, into the room, he 
knew it not. He was dead. 




TWILIGHT EEVERIE. 



'Tis" twilight's pensive hour. There is a sadness 
stealing oe'r the heart, like dim shadows oe'r declining- 
day — a sweet sadness, which, when felt, lifts the heart 
above earth and earthly things, np to heaven and God. 

And in this beautiful twilight we sit and dream — 
dream of life, and wonder if it is not all a dream. We 
gaze upon the works of God around lis, and the heart 
cries: '^ O, God! What are we? What is this great 
mystery called life? Shall we never know until life is 
ended? And shall we know then?" If death be the 
price of this precious knowledge, some day we'll all 
possess it. 

At times the soul longs to break the chain of mystery 
and ignorance encircling it here, and soar to that home 
where all mystery shall be made plain. 

How the mind grapples vainly at hidden things! It is 
of no avail. This frail mind of ours is incapable of pene- 
trating that which an All-wise Creator has made impene- 



76 WAYSIDE GLEAXTNGS. 

trable. Yet at times we seem to obtain just a glimpse 
of heaven with the '^mind's eye:" a strange yearning, 
a longing for something nobler and higher than this life, 
an overflowing fullness of the heart, an impulsive out- 
stretching of imaginative arms for an unknown something, 
which nothing in this world can satisfy. May not this 
be a suggestion of heaven? 




r^ 



UXCLE PETER. 



Uncle Peter is a bachelor, and a trne hunter in every 
sense of the word. This morning I saw him 'pass — his 
gun on his shouldei", he hied him away foi- the woods. 

Uncle Peter's friends are '^ legion." Care-free he is. 
The birds and squirrels his companions, and the forest 
his home. 

How I long to throw work and care aside, and follow 
his example! My gnn on my shoulder, I would wander 
through cool, shady nooks, where the foliage is so dense 
that the dew never exhales; where there's green moss in 
abundance, and bright violets all sparkling Avith dew. 

What care I for a warm dinner! Is there not a feast 
in such woods for a hungry soul and watchful eyes? 

But this is aspiring — speculating on impossibilities; 
but I can not stop this longing in my heart for the cool, 
shady woods. What would my neighbors say of me? 
They would be horror-stricken. Would imagine me 
shot through the heart ere an hour had elapsed, and be 



78 WAYSIDE (ILEAXTXGS. 

scouring the woods for my mutilated corpse. But I 
think I know better than to shoot myself, even if I am 
a woman. 

I always envy Uncle Peter his quiet happiness with 
the birds and the squirrels. 

I never wished to be a man, but I would like to do as 
I please, when 1 please to do right, and have the world 
say naught about it! 




rX THE EVEXi:N^riTIME THERE SHALL BE LIGHT. 



Dark clays will come to every life; for, "Into each 
life some rain must fall, some days be dark and dreary." 
Yes, dark days will come, wiien it seems that all earth 
is arrayed against us; and turn to the right or to the 
left, or which ever way we will, still no ray of light 
appears. It seems that the very heavens are clothed in 
blackness. 

It is at such times as these that poor, blinded crea- 
tures — blinded by the utter darkness around them — end 
this terrible state of aifairs by committing suicide. 

But how foolish! Have patience to wait. The sun- 
shine will break forth again, and form a halo of light 
around your life, more dazzlingly bright, on account of 
the darkness which has encompassed you. 

These dark days in our existence seem to be insep- 
arable from every life; but, let us draw comfort from the 
old saying, " 'Tis always darkest just before day," and 
know that when the darkness is most intense the day 
will soon break. 




In the eveningtime of sorrow, 
Ere the heart is broken quite, 

Ere the darkness reaches midnight. 
We have promise of the light. 




don't you do it. 



As homeward bound with weary feet, 
If, perchance, a friend you meet, 
And he insists that you must treat, 
Don't you do it! 

And on the other hand, if he, 
In a humor rather free, 
Asks you to drink — he'll pay the fee; 
Don't you do it! 

You say your appetite is strong. 
You never thought it very wrong. 
You'll take one drink and go along; 
Don't you do it! 

Intemperance is a dreadful crime, 
Relieves your purse of every dime; 
And conscience tells you every time : 
"Don't you do it!" • 



82 WAYSIDE GLEANINGS. 

Girls, whose hearts with joy are rife^ 
If he who leads a drunkard's life 
Solicits you to be his wife, 
Don't you do it! 




THE unitarian's INQUIRY 



[The following- inquiry was made by some of the speakers at the 
dedication of the Unitarian Church, at Jackson, Mich.] 

What shall we do with the Bible to-day? 
Shall we read it a little, or throw it away? 
They ask with a wondering, doubting look, 
What shall we do with that rusty, old book? 

Some parts shall we purge? and some let alone? 
Then proceed the historical Christ to dethrone? 
And place in his stead what seemeth us best, 
And leaVe men of science to develop the rest? 

That we've outgrown the Bible you all will allow; 
There's not one with its converse stamped on his brow, 
Not one, with that trusting, sweet, peaceful look. 
Which comes from reading that rusty, old book. 

ANSWER TO THE INQUIRY. 

Go ask of the saints and martyrs of old ; 
Go ask the good shepherd and the sheep of the fold; 
Go ask the true christian; they'll all tell you then. 
To ponder and read it, and be better men. 



84 WAYSIDE GLEANINGS. 

Go ask of that mother, that sorrowing one. 
Who has said to the Father: "Thy will be done/'' 
Go open that coffin and say if you can, 
That God's holy Word is no help to man. 

Go ask the beggar, in his attic to-day. 

Ere to his lone grave they bear him away, 

What gave him that happy — that sweet, peaceful look, 

AYhile his cold hand clasped that precious Old Book. 

Then go to your Maker, bow humbly and pray, 
That He, in his mercy, will show you the way; 
And you'll hear a low whisper, in accents most sweet: 
" God's Holy Word is a lamp to your feet." 




